


Midnight

by dalula



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Buckets (Homestuck), Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Choking, Come Inflation, Dual Bulges (Homestuck), M/M, Moirails With Pails, Nook Fingering (Homestuck), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Size Difference, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalula/pseuds/dalula
Summary: A pang of homesickness for the old Mituna hits you and your blood pusher fills with affection for him, your eyes sting as they start to water. You’re so pale for him, so fucking pale.





	Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> just some fluffy smut for the ship that makes me soft

Mituna shifts beside you on the pile of game cartridges and skateboards you lie on, tucked closely to your side. His arm is draped over your stomach and his steady breaths warm your neck; he’s purring ever so softly. You trail an ungloved hand up underneath the loose-fitting shirt he’s wearing, one of yours you lent him a few weeks ago that he insists on keeping, and brush the knots of his spine.

The electronic buzz that once radiated from his skin has been missing since the accident but you still get goosebumps when you touch him. He still smells the same, though, which does more to calm you down than his words or paps ever do. It tells you he’s here, he’s safe and happy. Smell was the part of his accident that still clings to you after years of your ghostly existence, the burnt, metallic stench that overwhelmed his normal sweet scent. Or maybe you focus on that to avoid the memory of his limp body, bloody face, his screams when he woke up. 

He seems to sense that your thoughts descending into darker territory and snuffles in his sleep, tightening his grip on you. You let out a quiet trill to settle him. 

He'd insisted on a feelings jam after a run-in with Ampora earlier that day. Apparently, after another rejection from Peixes, the sea dweller had stumbled across Mituna and taken it out on your moirail yet again. You’d listened to his half coherent ranting with your usual patient smile and encouraging nods, silently promising to have a word with Ampora about just how sick you are of his behaviour. Though Mituna became less understandable the more worked up he became you didn’t mind; you were always happy to listen. Not that you could do much else. 

After he had exhausted himself, you’d pulled him deeper into the pile for some well-earned papping. Even though he became distressed more often than before, it was easier to soothe him, if you knew how to. As good for Mituna as Latula was, she could be too rough and handsy for him to handle in one of his panicked states and could overwhelm him. Midbloods find it easy to forget how different they are from lowbloods, how much stronger they are. As a highblood, you were constantly aware. You had to be. It wouldn’t do to hurt your diamond. 

Mituna’s breath suddenly catches, indicating that he’s waking up. You watch his eyes open slightly and try to adjust to the room’s darkness, his lowblood vision making it harder for him to see than for you. Humming faintly in greeting, you wait for him to gather himself. The tremors in his limbs resurge, his breathing comes out in irregular puffs, eyes flitting around the room as he grips your shirt subconsciously. 

“Loth?” His voice is quieter than normal but still jolting in the room’s silence. 

You bring the hand from around his waist up to the back of his neck and squeeze lightly, enough to tell him you’re there but careful not to startle him. 

He turns his face towards you, white eyes meeting yours. “Tula feel- fell. Fell off her board. Ith she okay?”

It takes you a moment to register he’s talking about the dream he had. 

You know his eyes will have adjusted enough to make out your hands in the dark but he’s lying on your arm and you prefer the intimacy that using your chucklevoodoos brings anyway. 

_ “All is A-mother-fuckin’-okay, Tuna.”_

“Cool,” his instant trust in you makes your blood pusher soar. He flumps back to rest against you, twisting his legs with yours. 

You wait for him to say something else but he doesn’t. There's enough time left in the day if you wanted to get some more shut-eye, not that you need it considering your ghostly status. You pull Mituna back against you and settle in for a few more hours of rest, expecting him to loosen up and do the same. Instead of relaxing in your hold, he becomes more agitated and wrigglier, fidgeting restlessly. You're not concerned until uncomfortable whines start rising from his throat. Unsure of what he's trying to communicate, you opt to wait it out and see if he'll pacify himself. It's not unusual for him to work himself into a frenzy but if he's wholly panicking you need to step in. His hand moves down in aborted jerking motions until he grabs at the flesh of your thigh, clenching and unclenching his fist. You don’t mind the strength of his grip or the pain it brings you. 

_ “Is all well, mine own sweetest motherfucker?”_

He grumbles something, huffing and tearing at his own lips with his jagged teeth. Tentatively, you send your voodoos deeper. Sometimes he just can’t get the words out, it saves you both a lot of frustration if you help him along. If he notices you prodding around in his mind he doesn’t comment, remaining slack and unresistant to your search. You think your presence in his mind comforts him, even if it’s on a subconscious level. 

It doesn’t take long to find what was bothering him. 

The feeling manifests as a heat surging through his mind and you feel his ache as if it were your own. You slide your leg up until your thigh meets his crotch and he gasps in response. At first, he’s too startled by the relief to move, his body going taut and wide eyes searching yours until you press harder in encouragement.

"_You know I'm all kinds of qualified in pullin' those mystical strings in what up and make a bro feel good, so how's about you relax and get your blissful chill on? Take your pleasure, brother. _”

He whines desperately, head falling back and presenting his neck to you. The blatant sign of submission makes you smile wider, despite the warning tug of the thread that keeps your mouth shut. You’d bite him if you could, mark him as yours, trail your cold tongue over his skin until he shivers. But you can’t. His hips move with fervent incoordination, grinding harshly against the layers of clothes blocking him. You can feel the wetness of his nook already, even with his bulges just barely unsheathing, it’s soaking into your leggings and leaving yellow streaks where he rubs. 

You consider letting him get off like this, watching him get more and more delirious, writhing against you until he spills warm, honeyed genetic material onto your lap. As delightful an image that is, you want to satisfy him completely. Besides, you love teasing that sweet nook with your fingers, hearing how he cries out and incoherently begs for more. Mostly, you ache to taste him. Licking his saccharine folds is one of the few things you miss since you removed your tongue. 

“FUCK! Thtupid, shitty clown,” he shouts impatiently. “Need more, you worthleth fu-cking bulgejerk.”

Moving your hand to his head, you stroke his hair calmly and give him a few tender paps. You know he doesn’t mean it, that he can't help the putrid nonsense that spews out of his unconsenting lips.

_"Don’t be stressin’ thine own motherfuckin' self out so much, brother. We ain't in no rush here. How's a mirthful piece of shit like myself goin' to be pleasin' his palemate if he's got such a wretched squirm on?"_

“I’m thorry,” he mutters, the anger dissipating almost immediately.

You chirr at him to let him know you’re not angry. You could never be angry at him. 

His hair covers a good chunk of his face and you're forced to brush it away to reach his flushed cheeks. He grumbles and shifts, insecure of the damage caused by his burnout, but allows you to do as you wish. You wonder if he's as complaisant with Pyrope as he is with you. If he lets her hold him close as you do or if he struggles and yowls from choking overstimulation. After a timeless eternity of practice within the dream bubbles, you know how to caress him just right in order to soothe him. How to keep his mind from panicking and body from shuddering. A slide of your hand on the right cheek and then the left, in that order specifically, mind how hard you're pressing down, make sure you're leaning away so he doesn't feel smothered. The tension in his body drains out quickly as you care for him, gentle and mindful of the scars by his eyes, until he’s left boneless and sleepy.

Once he’s placated, you reward him by adjusting yourself so you’re above him and helping him pull off his boxers. His hands slide against yours uselessly as he tries to help you, his mind still fuzzy from your affections. As much as he loves wearing his tight suit, you insist he needs to dress in loose clothes to let his skin breathe. Plus, it’s an excuse to put him in your clothes, which hang off him adorably and envelopes him in your scent.

He holds his legs tight together, on purpose or not you're not sure. While you wait for his muscles to loosen, you kiss his bruised knees and draw hallowed symbols on his skin with your fingertips. It takes a minute but he eventually relents enough to let you part his thighs and take a look at his blushed and dampened groin. His nook is already leaking. You push his legs up to his chest for a better view and you're rewarded with a gasp as his small hole flutters. Above his winking nook is his bulges, both tips just barely peeking out of his sheath.

_ “You’re already so wet, Tunabro. Were you enjoyin' a most blessed nocturnal emission durin' our motherfuckin' slumber?”_

He flushes beautifully, confirming your suspicions.

_ “Ain’t no shame in that, my brother,"_ you practically coo._"Can you up and be sharin' what happened with this curious motherfucker right here?”_

“No! Groth. You’re fucking groth,” he shakes his head forcefully. Despite his words, he thrusts his hips up towards you, trying to bring attention to his neglected emerging bulges. You thumb the tips and he shudders, garbling out an incomprehensible sound. When they've slipped out enough to hold you grip them loosely in one hand, letting them twine around your wrist and fingers. 

_ “I ain't feelin' very obliging then,”_ you let him squirm in discomfort while you refuse to help relieve him. 

His hips buck up into your slack hand despite the lack of pressure but his movements are uncoordinated and sharp, his bulges unsure of where to go to find what they want, so they twitch relentlessly against you. Tangling between your limp fingers, they wriggle around in search of a wet hole to sink into.

“Pleathe, fucking pleathe. Dumb, nookthniffing, worthleth fuck fucking -”

Your other hand shoots up to his cheek, which you pap quickly._ “Shoosh, my wicked diamond. We only got our play on, no need for all this tormented noise.”_

“I’m thorry.” 

You smile and begin to stroke him properly, albeit slowly so as to not overwhelm him. His eye’s half close in pleasure and although you can’t see his pupils you know he’s staring at you. He’s slick enough that your hand moves easily over him, paying special attention to the sensitive split of his bulges, right at the base. A whine is forced out of him as you grasp him tighter and speed up your hand. 

“You, you. You wath- were in me, your bulge. We k-kithed tho fucking pale and you uthed me like a bucket. Fucking. FILTHY.”

He’s describing his dream again, you realise. Your own bulge, patient until now, wriggles against the barrier of your leggings.

“Then Tula showed me thome new trickth? And fell,” he’s scowling in confusion. 

_ “Skaterbitch ain't here right now. Just you and me, homie. Why don't you and me get to makin' that lewd ass vision a reality?” _

Instead of replying, Mituna’s frown evens out and he continues to pant heavily. You decide you’ve held back long enough and start to tease his nook lips with a finger on your free hand. He jerks back at the coolness of your skin but adjusts quickly, pivoting his hips down towards your finger then back up into the hand stroking his bulges. You hardly need to move, his erratic movements doing most of the work for you. He’s wet enough that one finger enters him easily, swiftly followed by a second. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how much warmer he is than you, especially inside. Restlessly squirming, your bulge is eager to enter him but you have to stretch him out first, lest you hurt him. Nooks are made to stretch and yield to their partner's bulge, a beneficial evolution when trolls vary so much in terms of size, nevertheless you enjoy dragging out Mituna's pleasure for as long as he'll allow you.

“Loth,” he croaks, almost sounding like himself. “More.”

A pang of homesickness for the old Mituna hits you and your blood pusher fills with affection for him, your eyes sting as they start to water. You’re so pale for him, so fucking pale. Averting your gaze before he notices, you push a third finger into him. His mouth moves soundlessly, eyes scrunching closed as his legs slam together, trapping your hand in between them. 

_ “Is all feelin' miraculous, my divine ninja?”_

He nods fervently. You wait serenely until he loosens his legs and allows your hand to move again. 

“Clown fuck! Want your _bulge_,” he spits. 

_ “Settle your sweet self, brother. No need to be hastin'. We got ourselves all the time in the world, don't we, sunshine?”_

Whenever you get intimate it's always a reminder of how small he is compared to you. It’s natural for highbloods to be bigger than lowbloods but you’re never more aware of the difference than when you think about being inside him, stretching his tight nook around your bulge. No matter how many times he takes it, you worry if he can handle it. He’s even smaller to you now, after his accident. Before it had seemed like he could take on the world with just his loud mouth and powerful psionics but now he’s so fragile, volatile. You could crush his meal tunnel with one hand, destroy his body along with his mind. 

He hits you with his foot.

“Thop thinking tho much, thtupid nooklicker.”

Why does your brain always have to drift to dark places in moments like this? You’re thankful you have him to keep you present, a light in your darkness. 

To distract yourself, you focus back on pleasuring him. Your long fingers move in and out of him smoothly, feeling his soft walls clinging to you already. Your digits are long enough to circle the entrance to his seed flap, which is just barely opening for you, and he cries out. 

“IN, IN_ IN_. GARBAGE THLURRY EATING WIGGLER.”

As tempting as it was to continue teasing him, you’re really making a mess in your pants by now.

_ “You got it, motherfucker.”_

Removing your hands from him, you wriggle out of your leggings, Mituna giggling at your clumsy rush to be rid of them. They get caught on your ankle and you throw them as far away as you can in retaliation, bringing your attention back to your yellow blooded diamond. He’s touching one of his bulges but, distracted by you, he’s only succeeded in rubbing it with the heel of his hand. 

_"Where’s your patience? You know you need to be up and waiting' for this blasphemous fuck before you go reachin' your most sacred of endin’s.”_

“Fuck patienthe, skank whore looking bitch!” 

_ “Silence, my most beloved. We’ll be all up and starting our most divine motherfuckin’ union shortly.”_

You run your hands up the backs of his thighs, his skin feeling so much warmer than yours. His hair is a sweaty mess on his forehead but you can see his pure white eyes peeking out from under it, watching you again. You take in his features, the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the dual sets of fangs peeking out from his mouth. He’s a very pretty troll, you think. You’re lucky to be in a quadrant with him, no matter what Ampora might say. You brush the black, fluffy hair away from his face so that you can admire him without obscurement and smile when he nudges his nose into your hand.

"Loth," you can barely hear him with how faint his voice is.

Stubbornness dissolved by his tender tone, you bring your bulge up to the opening to his nook, letting it dip inside him shallowly. He shivers, whether from the coolness or the sensation you’re not sure, but he doesn’t tell you to stop so you press in further. He’s never one to shy away from a challenge, taking your bulge being one of them. He doesn’t make a sound besides shallow breathing until there’s one-third left, letting out a shuddering moan while his body trembles. He’s so tight, no matter how many times you do this. His insides cling to you, warm and pulsing, and you can see the skin of his entrance spread taut around your bulge. Even throughout the uncomfortable stretch, genetic fluid has trickled out onto the pile underneath you, its heady scent making you dizzy with arousal. 

_ “Real motherfuckin’ miracle, aren’t you?”_ You murmur, your hand drifting back to caress his bulges._ “My blessed fuckin’ sunbeam.”_

He’s muttering something but it’s unintelligible, broken off words. His hands grasp at whatever they can find, one clamps down on an old controller and the other wraps around your arm, nails digging into your skin. They draw blood when you finally bottom out but neither of you notices, too lost in pleasure. Your bulge explores his insides, grazing his internal walls, teasing the opening to his seed flap. His legs have drawn shut around your hips, keeping you locked against him.

You'll have to put him in a warm ablution trap after this to relax his muscles or he'll be achy for the next imaginary sweep.

_ “All still feelin' divine?” _He only whimpers in response._“Speak your righteous noise at me, brother.”_

“‘Th good, tho fucking good.” 

Smiling, you circle your hips slowly. His eyes flutter as his head falls back, arching his body up to meet yours. It’s moments like these where you can pretend that everything is normal like it used to be. Mituna seems alight with pleasure. Even through the haze of rapture, he's wearing a familiar confident grin that you recognise from long ago. It brings back memories of successful skateboard tricks, lighthearted pranks played on Kankri, flights through the clouds as red and blue sparks crackle around you. It hurts to remember these memories but it hurts more to try and forget them.

He won’t let you move back enough to thrust into him properly so you let your bulge do the work, wriggling inside him and smoothing against his inner walls. You long to force your way past his seed flap's sphinchter and curl up and flood his gene bladder with your fluid but it's not open enough yet and you don't want to hurt him. Genetic fluid drizzles down the inside of your thighs from your nook and you ache for his bulges inside you. The outline of your bulge presses up against the skin of his stomach and he gasps loudly in response. 

_ “Look how motherfuckin’ full of me you are. How tight you are, mine own beloved, how warm. I’m blazin’ up a fuckin’ storm inside thy most blessed self, brother, burnin’ the fuck up. You make me the most favoured of the sacrilegious clowns, sanctified by your saccharine bein’.”_

You can see translucent yellow tears forming in his eyes. “Not worthy, not fucking WORTHY."

He starts to sob and you press your forehead against his, your own eyes burning too. 

_ “Now, don’t be startin’ with that noise." _Your voice cracks with emotion._“So pale for you, Tuna, I be keepin’ all my softest pity for you.”_

“Pale f’ you too,” his voice shakes harshly, you feel his hot breath against your mouth. You press your stitched lips against his as gently as you can, barely even brushing against them, rotating your hips slowly. He moves against you frantically, contrasting your calm movements, kissing you desperately, licking you with his forked tongue. He’s probably getting paint in his mouth but that doesn't stop him.

His blank eyes are glazed when you move your head away, from the pleasure, the crying, or your voodoos you can’t be sure. You wipe away the drying tracks of tears left on his cheeks with the edge of your shirt sleeve. He’s beautiful like this and you tell him so, which makes him blush a golden yellow. His legs have loosened enough for you to draw back from him and you lead his bulges to your waiting nook. It's difficult to rangle them both at once as they spasm without control but instinct kicks in when they pass over your hole. Alone, he’s not big enough to stretch you much but with both of his bulges together he fills you perfectly. They twine together inside you, searching for your seed flap from an inborn urge. He’s not coordinated in his movements but together you grind against each other, your motions making slick sounds as you move in and out of each other. 

He’s drooling and whining, eyelids flickering and his blank eyes rolling back in his head as you thrust into him. His puffy hole is clinging to you and you know you don’t have the willpower to leave him to get a bucket before you spill. You lean down to kiss his neck the best you can with your stitches, nuzzling his scent glands with your nose. The overwhelming smell of honey and sex surrounds you. 

Mituna starts to tense against you and you know he’s close. 

_ “Are you approachin' your wicked endin’s, brother? Gonna come on my bulge like the desperate pail slut you are?”_

He nods rapidly, eyes closed tight and bony knees digging into your skin. 

_ “Fall apart. I'll be here to put your most miraculous self back together.”_

It takes one last sharp thrust to send him over the edge. His back arches, chest touching yours, as yellow genetic fluid sprays between you. Most of it stays trapped inside, your bulge plugging up him up and your hungry nook milking everything it can take from him. He moans pitifully, like his pleasure is being wrenched from him without permission. His climaxes last for less time than yours do, maybe it’s a lowblood thing, but with his condition he’s left twitching for minutes after. Dutifully, you fuck him steadily through it, ignoring your own rising pleasure to let him soak in his afterglow for as long as he can. His bulges start retracting before he’s even caught his breath, slipping out of your drenched nook and leaving you empty. His material trails down your thighs in ochre rivulets.

Once he’s calmed, you increase the pace again, slamming into his sore nook with barely restrained force. You know you should let him rest but you’ve done this before, you know he can handle it. From the look on his face, you think he’s even enjoying the oversensitive feeling. Liquid hits your skin every time you reenter him, you’re literally fucking the fluid out of him you realise hazily. He sluggishly moves his hands to pull your forehead to the junction of his neck, stroking his fingers through your knotted hair as you rest against him. 

“You’re good, Loth. The betht fucking d-diamond." His hands trace tiredly over your face; your eyebrows; cheekbones; lips, likely smudging you face paint. “Handthome. Like, hot ath fuck.” 

You snort, smiling fondly. 

“No for realth. Bitcheth dig the goth shit.” Your bulge brushes a part in him that makes him choke. “Really, athhole?”

_“For such a blasphemous mouth, your dirty talk is motherfuckin’ disgraceful.”_

He scoffs. “Oh, you want _dirty?_ Greedy fu -ck. Want you to fill me, wanna drip purple for _weeks_. I’m your pail thlut. Ruin me with your huge bulge, shitlicker.”

Your hips twitch despite yourself. 

_ “Sinful fuckin’ words comin’ from such sugared lips.”_

“Yeah. I’m k-kinda a thex god tho,” he goes for a nonchalant shrug but only succeeds in getting his horn snagged on an old shirt hiding within your pile. “It’th to be expected.”

You chuckle silently, your shoulders shaking. He’s such a dork. You don’t know if you could feel any more pity for him if you tried. 

As much as you love talking to him while he’s this coherent, your bulge is screaming at you to keep moving. You readjust yourself before starting back up your fast pace, slamming your hips into his. With a squeak, his hands fly to your shoulders and cling on tight, letting you have your way with him. His nook is so warm, even warmer than Meulin’s, and you switch to grinding unrelentingly against him so you can stay within his hot confines. His angular knees and fingers dig into you but you hardly notice, chasing your climax. The walls of his nook ripple around you as he clenches, tight and unrelenting undulations massaging your bulge.

"C'mon, Kurly. F-fill me."

In the end, it’s him grasping your throat and squeezing that sends you over the edge. There’s a moment of nothingness before overwhelming pleasure floods you. You can feel the stream of fluid pumping out of you through the waves of dizziness, it runs down your legs to stain the pile beneath you. Something breaks in your hand and you realise you’ve grabbed onto one of Mituna’s controllers, you're sure he’ll get pissy about it later but right now you don’t care. Vaguely, from your light-headed state, you hear yourself making low strangled moans but it’s distant, as if the sound is from someone else in another room. 

The burn in your lungs takes on a painful edge before he lets go and you take greedy inhalations through your nose as you recover.

“Pft, look at that bitch ath bulge!” Mituna’s staring down at his stomach, where his abdomen has swollen from all the genetic fluid inside him. He looks up at you, grinning, but sees your face and frowns. “Bleeb- bleeding.”

You touch your hand to your lips and they come away purple. You must’ve pulled on your stitches and reopened the wounds. 

_“Ain’t nothin’ to worry your thinkpan about, homie. They’ll heal up real quick.”_

He gives you a sad look, like he wants to say something, but stays silent. You know he doesn’t like the stitches, doesn’t understand why you have them, but he respects your choices, as dramatic as they can be. 

Your bulge starts to retract back into your sheath, coated gold and purple. The pile calls to you to lie down but you still have to deal with cleaning the both of you up, starting with getting a bucket. You could stop the memory right now, remember you both some fresh clothes and skip the tidying up. But you like the domesticity of it, and the Empress' ruthlessly cheerful encouragement to fill buckets is a lesson that dies hard.

Before, Mituna would use his psionics but now you silently go to retrieve one and help him hover over it. With two long fingers, you pry apart his walls and let the slurry flow from his seed flap. He buries his head in the junction between your shoulder and neck, breathing heavily, while you coax out all of the remaining liquid. You know, now that you're dead, saving your genetic material is unnecessary but you can't resist complying with the intimate routine for the sake of humouring your fond memories of life. As your fingers leave him, you stroke his puffy nook lips and he whimpers. They’re sore, well-fucked, and leaking purple. You slap them to watch them flush that pretty yellow you love so much. 

“STOP! Fucking RUDE.” He nips the skin of your neck. “Let’th go clean. I thmell like mime cum.”

Even though he was the one who ordered you too, he still squawks when you lift him up bridal-style and march to the ablution trap. 

_ “Let’s go get a motherfucker clean then, shall we?”_


End file.
